


some rise by sin and some by virtue fall

by plutonianshores



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dignified Character Broken By Rape, Forced Arousal, Forced Orgasm, Knifeplay, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rimming, rapist pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 00:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/pseuds/plutonianshores
Summary: At the mutineers' camp, Hickey finds several uses for Goodsir





	some rise by sin and some by virtue fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



> Additional warnings in end note.
> 
> Alternate summary: Hickey eats Goodsir's ass and then eats Goodsir's ass

The first time Hickey had him, Goodsir was delectably confused. He looked up at Hickey with hatred in his eyes when Hickey entered his tent, but the same sort of hatred as when they’d forced him to play doctor.

"Trousers off, Mr. Goodsir." Hickey smirked at his hesitation. "You’re here to serve my needs, and I find myself needing a lover as well as a surgeon." He traced a thumb over Goodsir’s cheekbone, following him when he flinched away. "Your captain and his trial made it quite clear that I’m a bad man. You should have expected this."

Goodsir looked at him with that infuriating mix of pity and sorrow at which he was so skilled. "You don’t have to be."

Hickey leaned in close to him, close enough that his breath must have tickled Goodsir’s whiskers. "Ah, but this is so much more fun." And then he leaned in even closer and bit down on Goodsir’s lip.

Goodsir jerked away, reaching up to shove Hickey. But he froze obligingly when Hickey pulled a knife from his waistband and held it to his throat.

"None of that, now." Hickey traced the knife over the pale, unblemished skin of Goodsir’s throat. "I might need your surgeon’s hands, but I don’t need your surgeon’s tongue or your surgeon’s bollocks. Do what I say and you’ll have a better time of it." He noted with some satisfaction that the pity in Goodsir’s eyes had transformed to fury. "Now, trousers off. I won’t ask so nicely again."

Goodsir had one of the finer arses Hickey had come across, plump and milk-white. Hickey had to be the one to bend him over a crate and pull his trousers down to expose his lovely arse further, but Goodsir went along with his tugs and nudges as obligingly as a lamb to the slaughter.

Hickey spit on Goodsir’s hole and worked a finger inside of him. Goodsir buried his face in the crook of his elbow and kept silent, instead of crying out as Hickey had hoped he would. Hickey stroked his other hand over the flesh of Goodsir’s arse, then slapped it to see it color. That drew a startled yelp from him.

"You make a pretty picture," Hickey said, caressing the red mark he’d left. Goodsir kept his face turned away and his mouth shut. Hickey pondered the curves of his arse and, on an impulse, leaned down to bite him just above the joint of his thigh. This _did_ draw a cry from Goodsir. Hickey pressed a kiss to the mark he’d left and gave another thrust of his fingers.

Hickey thrust his prick into him without further warning, hoping for another scream. He was rewarded with only a muffled gasp. No matter, he’d have Goodsir screaming soon.

Goodsir was tight and warm around him, and Hickey, as much as he wanted to, wasn’t sure he could make this last as long as he’d wanted. Were they anywhere else, not in this frozen hellhole that had kept Hickey from the conquests he might have pursued in merry old England and threatened to freeze his prick off if he kept it exposed for more than a few moments, he would have worked Goodsir to the edge and back, until he couldn’t help but beg for an end or a caress or both. Instead, he was lucky that he lasted long enough to hear a few muffled sobs before he spent.

Goodsir didn’t look up as he left, and Hickey decided most magnanimously not to force him to.

 

Hickey thought about Goodsir, about the contempt writ large across his face when Hickey told him to prepare Gibson’s body and, before that, the tenderness with which he’d stroked Gibson’s face through the man’s last breaths, and he wanted more than he’d already taken. Hickey knew he had long since lost the chance at tenderness, but he could at least expose the corruption until Goodsir could no longer pretend to stand above the rest of them.

When Goodsir delivered Gibson to him, now just so many cuts of meat in a few sacks, Hickey took him by the arm and said, "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

"You made me into your butcher." Goodsir’s eyes were hard.

"You were always a butcher. I just made you mine." Hickey gestured towards his tent. "There’s something else I want from you, Mr. Goodsir."

Goodsir followed him, obedient as anything. That went straight to Hickey’s prick, how easily he followed orders. Oh, he would glare and mutter and make his derision clear, but he ran when Hickey called.

"Do you have someone else to murder?"

Hickey cocked his head. "I meant to reward you for making the right choice, but if you’re going to insult me, perhaps I should reconsider." He looked Goodsir over appraisingly and shrugged. "Then again, it’s as much for me as you." He tugged Goodsir’s face down to meet his and kissed him.

Goodsir froze. He let Hickey probe between his lips, but didn’t open his mouth to reciprocate. Hickey nibbled at his lip, not hard enough to hurt, and then drew back.

"Take what you want, and leave me be," Goodsir said, avoiding Hickey’s eyes.

"What I want is for you to enjoy this." Hickey pressed his lips to Goodsir’s throat, relishing the scrape of his beard. "Let’s get these off." He worked the waistband of Goodsir’s trousers down, enough that he could spread the man’s legs, and guided him down onto the bedclothes. Goodsir shook under his touch, but didn’t flinch away as he had the first time. Hickey knelt beside him and licked a stripe up the cleft of his arse.

Goodsir gasped, and would have bucked away had Hickey not taken hold of his hips.

"You’ll enjoy this," Hickey promised, pressing a kiss to the back of Goodsir’s spine. Goodsir said nothing. No matter, Hickey would have him shouting soon enough. He knew his way around a man’s arse, and he knew how to read reactions. When he tongued at the rim of Goodsir’s hole, Goodsir’s thighs quivered; when he pushed his way inside, Goodsir’s prick twitched; when he replaced his tongue with a spit-slicked finger, Goodsir flinched away at first but chased the contact when Hickey crooked his finger at the proper angle.

Hickey worked another finger in alongside the first, and with his other hand traced up and down Goodsir’s side, watching gooseflesh rise up alongside Goodsir’s prick. Goodsir shut his eyes.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Goodsir?"

He turned his face away.

Hickey stroked a hand up Goodsir’s prick, which had been rising to attention even before the direct contact and only grew harder with it. "You certainly _seem_ to be enjoying yourself."

"There’s a gland," Goodsir said, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking, "that lies in the rectum. Its stimulation can cause arousal, especially combined with genital contact. It’s an involuntary physical reaction – ah!" He stuttered to a stop as Hickey tightened his grip on his prick and toyed his thumb over the head. Goodsir’s face went deep red and he bit down on his lower lip, not quite managing to keep his moans at bay.

By necessity, Hickey had grown well-versed in what noises to make when a man fucked him, whether to sound enthralled or desperate or pained. He’d never managed anything nearly as intoxicating as the cries Goodsir artlessly swallowed, and he doubted he ever would. A few more twists of his wrist and thrusts of his fingers and Goodsir spilled over Hickey’s hand with a shout he couldn’t bite back.

Hickey slid his fingers out of Goodsir and slapped him on the thigh. "Turn over."

"Haven’t you gotten what you wanted?" Goodsir asked, voice ragged. But he obeyed.

"Would you leave me unsatisfied after I was so kind to you?" Hickey slicked himself with Goodsir’s seed and pressed the head of his prick to his hole. "I’ll be gentle, I promise."

Relaxed as he was from his recent climax, Goodsir hardly resisted him at all. He began to shake, and Hickey realized with some interest that he was crying.

Hickey kissed the back of his neck, thrusting as slowly as he could manage. When his hand wandered back to Goodsir’s prick, he found it rising to attention once more.

"I told you I’d make you a proper sodomite," he said low and close to Goodsir’s ear, "but it seems you were one already." Goodsir whimpered, but his prick didn’t soften.

"Please," he whispered.

"Do you want me to stop?" Hickey laughed when he nodded. "That’s not what your prick says. Maybe I’ll invite the others in when I’ve finished, let them have a go at you as well. It might take the whole camp to satisfy you."

He wouldn’t. Even those who would gladly seize a ship’s surgeon by violence might balk at sodomizing him, and Hickey was all too aware of the precariousness of his power here. But the whimper Goodsir made at the idea and the images it conjured up of Goodsir on his hands and knees, arse leaking and black curls streaked through with spend, was enough to drive Hickey over the brink.

Goodsir let his knees slide out from under him as Hickey stood up, not making any moves to stand or redress. Hickey was tempted to linger and watch him, see how long it took the cold to overwhelm him into stirring and how long it took his erection to flag, but he had other obligations.

 

Whether it was the butchery or the sodomy, Hickey couldn’t say, but something broke in Goodsir that day. It surprised Hickey how much it rankled to fuck a man who didn’t bother to respond in any way. He didn’t need something as engaging as the sobs and shudders of their first few times together, but he wanted more than a limp body to rut against. Neither slaps nor caresses drew Goodsir’s ire, and Hickey found himself toying with other ideas.

One day, he took out his knife, waving it in front of Goodsir’s eyes. The man hardly blinked.

"If you don’t make some sort of effort, Mr. Goodsir, I’ll be forced to use more drastic measures."

Goodsir looked up at him, eyes dull. "Do what you will."

The drag of Hickey’s knife down his chest barely shocked the dullness out of him, but when he grew used to the pain he sank back into that tedious stillness.

"Roll over," Hickey said, imagining what else he could make on the canvas of Goodsir’s skin.

Goodsir obeyed.

Hickey pressed his knife to the meat of Goodsir’s arse and carved his initials, slow and precise. He stepped back to admire his work,  _ EC _ written in a precise and angry red where only he could see it. A shame Goodsir couldn’t see it as well.

"I’ve put my name right here," he said, pressing his palm to the wounds. That drew a shudder from Goodsir, although whether it was due to the pain or the words Hickey didn’t know .

Hickey took his hand, now smeared  with Goodsir’s blood, and began to stroke himself. He shut his eyes and returned to his memories of Goodsir begging, Goodsir desperate, Goodsir crying. It took hardly any time at all to reach his peak, and when he spent, he did it across the marks he’d made.

That made a pretty picture, at least, even if Goodsir’s reaction left something to be desired.

 

It seemed the man had some spine left after all. When Hickey found him in his tent, wrists carved open and skin wiped clean of whatever marks Hickey had left on him, he felt a strange sort of pride.

They butchered him like the others, and Hickey took his arse for himself, the marks he’d made still vivid and unhealed upon it. His, to the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains Hickey being gratuitously nasty, Goodsir's canonical suicide, canon-typical cannibalism


End file.
